


In the Bed of Jupiter

by sans_patronymic



Series: The Domesticated Detective [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Makeup Sex, POV Sherlock Holmes, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7029871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes learns the importance of a properly made bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Bed of Jupiter

It may hardly come a shock to anyone who knows me, or even, through the writings of my estimable companion, who knows _of_ me, that I was not precisely looking forward to retirement. I felt my constitution as poorly suited to country air as a consumptive to a damp keep. Yet, there was one promise of our retirement that I eagerly anticipated, dare I say it, _years_ before our move, and this was a simple one: A Bed.

At Baker street our beds were single beds, for single men, and while they served us amply in our time there, they could make for some rather uncomfortable sleeping arrangements. No matter how much affection burns in my heart for John Watson, there are nights when I simply have no interest in waking up with his elbow in my face, or his snoring directed exactly into my right ear. In London, one cannot trade in one’s single bed for a double without either acquiring a spouse, or arousing suspicion—while Watson had managed to get himself married off, the double bed of his marriage did not return with him to Baker street. Beyond the complicated emotions a double marriage bed might have conjured, there was simply not enough space in our lodgings to accommodate such a convenience.

In the country, however, an older man preparing to make his home for the remainder of his years can hardly be begrudged a small measure of comfort such as a large, four-poster bed, modestly decorated at head and foot with the various iconography of oak leaves, acorns, and other staples of British country style. A spacious bed, jointly decided upon and jointly purchased, for two, who plan to share it _’til death do they part_ , and so on. Such was my fondest dream of retirement, since made glorious reality.

There is, of course, a small bed which occupies the far corner of what is publicly referred to as _my room_ , though I personally consider it more of a study, a laboratory, and a repository for all my more eccentric ephemera, which are otherwise inharmonious with Watson’s aesthetic of a quiet, country cottage. While the addition of that bed was mostly for the sake of propriety, I will admit to making great use of it in the afternoons, particularly as I get older and find myself knocked flat out by something so simple as an unusually heavy luncheon. But, for the most part, it is Watson’s bed that is really _our_ bed.

Our bed, with its dove grey quilt containing a small hole that both of us has noticed and remarked on, yet neither has taken it upon himself to repair or send off for mending.

Our bed, that is slowly developing the outline of two gentlemen: one long and thin, and the other, otherwise.

Our bed, where we spend lazy Sunday mornings, pulling ecstasy out of each other’s bodies, and quiet Tuesday nights, turning in appalling early, laughing at ourselves because we cannot for the life of us understand how we are so tired at a quarter past eight.

Our bed, which, on that particular evening, I was begrudgingly in the midst of making up.

 

“Oh, no, really, Sherlock,” Watson condemned from the doorway in such a disapproving tone, one would think I was a naughty child caught scribbling on the wall. “Do you _really_ call that making the bed?”

I tugged at the quilt one final time and offered a shrug. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Oh, it looks dreadful.”

It did, admittedly: the pillows askew, the top sheet horribly wrinkled and fanning out unevenly at the head of the bed, the quilt slightly further on my side than his—though that last error was by design, as I am much more apt to catch a chill in the night, whereas my John is known to kick the covers off in a sweat as early as April and well into October. I am not one to consider a bed an _objet d’art_ , but rather a necessary evil, and for me, the bed suited my purposes splendidly. I said as much and was met with a scowl that was not exactly cruel, but, perhaps, disappointed.

“John, I am about to get _in_ the blasted thing—“ I pointed out. My tone had grown rather standoffish and I found myself either unable to regulate it or unconsciously unwilling to do so. “Who cares if it looks a fright?”

“ _I_ care; if you don’t tuck the corners properly, the bottom sheet will come free in an instant, they’ll get all tangled, and I’ll end up half-strangled in my sleep.”

I may have, I confess, scoffed. There may have even been, though I really ought to have refrained, a roll of my eyes. Neither gesture was, as one may expect, very appreciated by my companion, who grew quite red in the face and blustered wordlessly for a moment.

“ _Holmes_ ,” he began in a growl. While my Christian name used to be reserved for moments of extreme emotion, retirement has quite reversed the effect to the point where, upon hearing the name ‘Holmes’ cross his lips, I now count myself Very Seriously In Trouble. I regret to say, in this moment, I did not heed the warning. “I asked you to do one, single thing for me today and you cannot even take it seriously.”

“We did not _all_ serve in the army, _dar_ ling. We cannot _all_ make perfect beds.”

This was precisely the _wrong_ thing to say.

John is my Jove, my Jupiter Centumpeda, Tigillus, Almus, Pecunia, as St. Augustine might say, for he gives stability, he supports, he nourishes, and it is to him that all of me belongs. And when I am kind and reverent to him, he is the most benevolent god. And when I am cruel or careless, or say snide things in protest of making the bed, he can rain down upon me with his whole divine supply of thunderbolts.

We quarreled viciously. He accused me of “not caring a fig” for doing anything “his way”. I countered that I do not care a fig about properly made beds. We then devolved into mutual laundry lists of minor annoyances. Much of what was said—particularly by me—was of great exaggeration and ought to have remained _un_ said.

“If you are going to speak to me like that,” Watson declared after an especially harsh barb, “then I may just as well sleep in the other room tonight.”

“That would suit me just fine,” attested I, “All the better for me to enjoy this _lovely_ bed.” To emphasize my point, I stretched out across its downy expanse.

“Fine then.”

“Fine.”

We volleyed ‘fine’s between us as Watson stormed down the hall and into my room, shutting the door with thunderous effect.

Not to be outdone, I put out the lamp, kicked off my slippers and nestled myself down in the middle of the mattress, all with a peacock’s prideful flourish, as if he might somehow sense my contented air from the other room and lament. I hoped to sleep well, so much the better to attest my righteousness, and to awake to find Watson crawling back to me upon his knees. The vastness of the bed was strange. I studied the ceiling for an hour or more. Sleep alluded me. I missed his warmth, the weight of him, even his snoring, even the way his legs kick when he dreams of war. Employing his pillow as a surrogate partner, I willed myself not to think of him and eventually fell from consciousness.

It was not long before fitful, half-dreams began to crowd my mind. Snippets of our argument repeated themselves, insults ballooning to grotesque proportions, dissolving into the usual assortment of psychological torments: waking alone in an empty house, being falsely accused of a crime and unable to prove one’s innocence, being tossed into a pit of serpents. I woke in a start and a sweat, the serpents still upon me. Further inspection revealed them to be suspiciously sheet-like and docile. My John had been correct, of course; the bedclothes had wriggled free from their bonds and set upon me in revenge. The clock on Watson’s bedside table told me it was half-past two and I knew, very certainly, that this bed held no more sleep for me that night. I set out down the hall, making my way barefoot towards my study.

The sound of his breathing was deep and comforting as the earth. In the dark, his silhouetted frame seemed an imperious Ozymandias. I crept towards him cautiously, awe-struck, the unworthy come to make penance.

I lifted the coverlet and quietly lowered myself onto the mattress. Watson stirred and uttered what was probably meant to be my name, but manifest as a shush followed by a question mark. I curled my fingers along his shoulder, a gesture that was as much question as it was answer. He pulled my arm about himself—permission granted. I settled myself against his back, drinking in the warm, sleepy smell of him. It is staggering, the human capacity to miss another, regardless of whether the absence is measured in decades or hours. I passed once again into sleep, contented as a freshly-found thing, Watson’s quiet snoring once more my lullaby.

The morning announced itself in the usual way: with Watson’s lips against my own. In the grey morning light he looked as beautiful and sunbaked as he had thirty years ago. Optics is not one of my fields of expertise, but I am utterly grateful for whatever cunning play of lumens presents this glorious spectacle for me time and again.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” I whispered—our faces were so near, to speak any louder seemed absurd.

For a moment he was still, silent, observing me. The lines drew tightly along his face, the azure of his eyes tinged, tainted by a faint displeasure. A flood of remorse drowned me as I recalled our argument—my hurtful remarks no doubt the cloud upon his countenance. Embarrassment burned a wildfire across my skin and my heart pounded thunderously against my chest. I sputtered impotently, apologies bubbling up from my gut and sticking in my mouth.

“How did we spend so many years in beds this small?” he asked finally. My merciful Jove.

“Necessity and love will drive men to do strange things.”

He smiled like the dawn and the hammering of my pulse calmed. His arms stretched with a yawn and settled about me. We pulled ourselves closer still, if there was a closer still, and pressed our foreheads together.

“The sheets came loose on you, didn’t they?”

“Instantly. I dreamt I was being torn apart by vipers.”

For once, it was his turn to gloat. I indulged his smug grin, his condescending chuckle. I found myself smiling as well, for he was right and he so enjoys to unmask my folly. It seems the older we are, the more opportunities I afford him to do so.

“John,” I began in earnest, “I am sorry for what I said.”

“Oh?” An apology alone would not suffice.

“I don’t hate the way you make tea; I don’t mind when you interrupt my reading; and as much as I bemoan your snoring, I, in fact… find it rather comforting.”

“And?” My demanding Jove.

“You are always obliging to all my requests, even with the bees, though I know they make you nervous. What I mean to say is, I should be very grateful if you taught me how to make the bed properly.”

“Well, well, the great Sherlock Holmes admitting his ignorance and asking for my assistance. I must be asleep—surely this sort of thing only happens in my dreams.” He batted at my hand which prodded him in protest. “I suppose such a lesson could be arranged, provided you promise to be an attentive student and not to roll your eyes at me.”

“On my honor.”

“What honor?”

We tussled playfully beneath the bedclothes. Age may have slowed us, softened our physiques, made us more tender and patient lovers, yet in the pillowy protection of a bed we still engage, as best we can, in our masculine displays of strength. More of a dance, than a struggle, we churned within the narrow confines of the mattress. In the end, I found myself above him, a knee planted on either side of his thighs, his hands upon my hips.

“Am I forgiven?” asked I.

“Nearly.” He lifted his hips up against me and it did not require any great reasoning on my part to know what more was asked of me. 

The boundless lust of Jupiter, king of the gods: so fortunate am I that he comes to me in the guise of a man. And when he comes in me, I see the whole of the cosmos crystalize in his cerulean eyes. Our love is always excellent, yet when it doubles as forgiveness, the feel of his cock and the brush of his lips are all the sweeter. This sacred splendor of our reconciliation is nearly enough to tempt me to displease him on purpose. Nearly.

Later that morning, after we fed and dressed ourselves in the guise of respectable older gentlemen, Watson demonstrated for me the proper technique for bed-making. Under his stewardship, I practiced repeatedly for the better part of an hour before I was able to pass his inspection. Now, some months later, I am finally deemed trustworthy with the task, though it does take me considerably longer than it does him.

The secret is in the folded corners.


End file.
